Welcome Aboard the Boning 747
Hi. My name is Dave Hill. Whether you are already aware of me and my vast body of important work or not, I’m certain that even a passing glance at my photo has got you thinking “Now there’s a guy that gets up to a lot of fuckin’.” And you’d be right. Unfortunately, however, my contractually allotted word count precludes me from telling you about each and every kind of porking I get up to most days, so I will use this space to simply tell you about my favorite kind—that magical, magical kind that takes place on airplanes.
If you’ve never boned on a plane before (and, statistically speaking, the odds of you having done so aren’t great unless, of course, you’ve been on a flight with me, in which case, Hi, nice to see you again), you probably assume joining the “Mile High Club” is a thing of the past, a throwback to a simpler time when you could smoke a carton of Newports in coach if you felt like it, airport security didn’t try to give you a goddamn rectal exam every time you went to visit your grandmother in Tampa, and airing out your junk under your meal tray once the cabin lights went down wasn’t grounds for an emergency landing or a stern talking-to from the assistant flight captain.
The truth is, however, that even in these crazy times we live in, airplane sex is alive and well. In fact, I recently boarded a commercial flight from New York’s LaGuardia airport to the Canton-Akron airport and had intercourse with half the people in coach and an entire family in business class without even really trying. Unsated, I then boarded a flight bound for Baltimore, during which I banged four flight attendants, fingered three first class passengers, and got a handjob from one member of the ground crew who wasn’t exactly crazy about rules. It should be noted that I did the exact same thing on the return flight from Baltimore to Akron 45 minutes later, albeit with mostly different people.
The reason why is simple: the outfit I had on at the time was really, really great. I wore a three-piece suit with matching tie and handkerchief and not only did I fucking own Cinnabon before boarding the plane in all three cities, but once we got up to 40,000 feet I was everyone’s clear choice for most bangable fresh-faced boy-next-door type in coach and the TSA couldn’t say shit about it. My fellow passengers appreciated the fact that—unlike everyone else on the plane—I somehow managed put out a little effort when it came time to get dressed and, next thing I knew, I was making sweet, sweet love to a mother of three and her cousin Donna in the airplane restroom for like twenty minutes, even though there was a line and the flight attendant with the mustache was kind of being a dick about it.
Unfortunately, we live in a time when most people think it’s perfectly fine to board an airplane wearing flip flops, sweat pants, and novelty T-shirts from the popular Ron Jon surf shop as if they are about to take out the goddamn garbage or something. And I can tell you from firsthand experience that most of those people are lucky if they get to second base during the flight, or even during a quote unquote “Denver layover,” despite its sexy implications. Trust me on this one: comb your hair, iron your blouse, slap on some deodorant, and nine times out of nine you are already halfway to Fucktown.
“But Dave,” you say, “I dress reasonably well all the time and I’ve never even been groped on an airplane.”
And to that I say, “Calm down, horndog. I’m not finished yet.”
The other half of the equation when it comes to getting your parts worked on in the friendly skies, involves, well, just being friendly. Sure, it’s easier to just keep your eyes glued to a rerun of Two and a Half Men and hope that someone in your section of the cabin is horny enough to lean over and say, “Hey, would you mind turning off Two and Half Men for a second so I can get my fuck on?” but it never hurts to just go ahead and make small talk with the person next to you and see what happens. “Airplanes, am I right?” “I can’t help but notice you and your daughter have the word ‘juicy’ printed on your butts,” and “Do you mind if I check under your seat cushion for Vicodin?” are just a few of the lines I have used to break the ice in the past.
If all else fails, however, you can always just wait until right after beverage and snack service, make eye contact with the most boneable person on the plane, and simply say “Nuts?” Hopefully, they’ll take it the right way. And by right way, of course, I mean the wrong way. Odds are you’ll be earning your wings in no time!
Happy f@#kin’,
Dave Hill
Dave Hill is a comedian, writer, musician, and man-about-town who is not exactly opposed to the idea of making you feel like a woman (regardless of your gender). His first book, Tasteful Nudes (St. Martin's Press), is out now. It is the best book.
